


Taking What You're Owed

by Hancockles



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Roleplay, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:04:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7448995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hancock has cheated you one time too many. Now it's time for you to take what you're owed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking What You're Owed

You’ve done some pretty stupid things during your time in the Commonwealth. Taking on more raiders than you could count on two hands by yourself, performing one-woman mutant-killing expeditions, even venturing out into this wasteland of an excuse for your home was a bad decision. Yeah, you’d done some stupid shit. But nothing as stupid as coming to Hancock with your complaints. 

The Mayor of Goodneighbor – so called Mayor, anyway – sent you on a mission a few nights before. You came back a little worse for wear, but with a smile on your face and the feeling of a job well done. He gave you your money, the caps, in a small, ratty cloth bag. Like you had just defeated a dragon or something, and it was filled with gold. But you didn’t think to count the damn caps before you left. Halfway toward wherever you were going (all thoughts of progress flew from your head when you realized and now you can’t remember where the fuck you were on your way to) you figured out that you had been cheated. There wasn’t enough.

“So the mayor is also a rat,” you said, to literally no one. You did look back at the horizon, toward Goodneighbor. And, putting anyway any alarms that were ringing in your head and shouting “bad idea!” you began trudging back. What would people think, if they learned you didn’t come back for what was owed to you?

***

Standing inside the State House, in front of Hancock’s rickety office door, your mouth goes dry. Your resolve had lessened with each step toward Goodneighbor, and now that you were here it felt like your guts were going to drop right out of you. You raise a fist, make a motion to knock on the door, then let your hand fall. Shit. Was it really such a good idea? Hancock’s reputation preceded him. Get on his bad side and it might be the end. Was risking your life really worth a few more caps?

Well, fortune favors the bold. So they say.

You raise your hand again and pound against the door with three booming knocks. It takes a fraction of a second for someone to open up. The bodyguard – what’s her name? Celsius? something cute like that – blocks your path.

“I’m here to see Hancock,” you say. 

Recognition flashes in her eyes. She motions over her shoulder, and you can see him fucking around with chems at the north end of the room, but she makes no motion for you to come in. “Well, take a good look,” she says.

“I mean I need to talk to him,” you say flatly.

“Oh, gotcha.” she says, and smiles, and you realize she’s the type to be obtuse for fun’s sake. “Don’t think he’s taking visitors right now.”

Trying to control your temper, you inhale sharply. 

“It’s important.”

“Always is with you people,” says the bodyguard.

“Fahrenheit,” calls Hancock. She turns her head to look at him before he continues. “Stop giving our guest a hard time. Let ‘em in.”

Fahrenheit steps to the side and ushers you in. The floorboards creak under your weight. The smoke in the room settles around you thickly. Fahrenheit’s almost finished closing the door when Hancock says, “and leave us.” She pauses and flicks her eyes between you and the mayor, but it only takes a fraction of a second. And her expression during that fraction of a second is worrisome. She closes the door behind her. 

“Look who we have here,” Hancock says, leaning against the table at the north end of the room. It’s littered with chems that range from used up to freshly concocted. A moldering bowl of noodles sits haphazardly in the corner.

“You ripped me off, you scheming fuck,” you say, figuring it best to get to the point before you lose your nerve. For emphasis, you shake at him the coin purse in your hand. He eyes it like a cat watching a toy mouse. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Ain’t my fault you let it happen.”

“We agreed on a price. I thought you were a man of your word.”

His brow, or what’s left of it, creases in a frown. “The fact of the matter is, you fucked up that mission. Why should I be paying you for shit you didn’t do?”

“You didn’t tell me that at all,” you say, flatly.

“What?” He seems genuinely surprised. “Musta been on some Jet at the time. Can’t remember a damn thing.” 

His nonchalance makes you angry, and you take a step toward him, pounding your boot harshly on the wooden floor.

“Listen, you druggie fuck, I want my money.”

You reach for a knife at your belt in a moment of anger, but in no time at all he’s got a blade of his own out, and he’s pinned you against the wall by the window. His left arm is braced against your chest, holding you down with a surprising amount of power, and his right hand holds the knife.

“I mighta been inclined to forgive you on account of your pretty face. But you come in here, throwing insults at me? That ain’t how it works.” 

You feel the tip of the blade press coolly against your exposed throat.

“But I think you know that,” he continues. “So tell me: why are you really here?”

You swallow thickly. “The c-caps…”

Hancock laughs, and it’s a loud bark of a laugh. 

“What, one tiny knife and suddenly you’re scared?”

“You ripped me off!”

“And I’ll rip somethin’ out if you don’t get the fuck out of here.”

He pushes the blade further and you feel your pulse against the sharp metal. Hancock pauses, then moves the knife away from your throat, making sure to leave a paper-thin slice down the smooth flesh. A trickle of blood makes its way downward. He eyes it, and his eyes brighten.

“Alright,” he says carefully. “This has happened before. People comin’ in here, sayin’ I’ve ripped ‘em off, when really they’re too scared to ask for what they really want. They need some sort of pretense. Or they need to make a show for everyone else so no one will know what they’re really coming here for…”

His dark eyes flick across your face, searching. 

“So what is it?” he asks. “You want chems?” He thinks for a moment, then bites his lip to suppress a smile. The sight of it makes your stomach drop, but in a way that feels different from before. His left arm is still hard across your chest, but the heat of it doesn’t threaten you, somehow.

“Or is it… you want me?”

Your eyes widen, and he laughs.

“You f-fucking… why would you think that?” You say, near-shouting, and you struggle to get out from under his grip. A flush has crept up your neck and is slowly threatening to take over your cheeks. Hancock keeps laughing, almost giggling now. You manage to slip out from under him and back against the couch, putting your hands on it to steady yourself. You wipe some of the blood from your neck.

“You got that look in your eye,” he says as he turns toward you, pointing the blade of the knife in your direction. His grin is the very definition of sardonic. “You a ghoulfucker, huh?”

“Okay, stop,” you say, noting that this encounter has gone from terrifying to strange very quickly. 

“Yeah, when we first met, I saw how bad you wanted me,” he says. He sticks the knife in his belt. “Saw it right away, you sicko.” 

“So what if I did?” you say, feeling more cornered than when he had you up against the wall. Your sudden quietness makes Hancock quiet, too.

“Woah, pal,” he says, after a while. “I was just joking.” And then, after another moment, he asks, “Are you serious?”

You look up at him and see his dark eyes roving over you again. You feel small under his gaze, and you shrug. 

“S-so what if I am…?”

“Well, fuck,” Hancock says softly, and bridges the gap between you and him in no time, grabbing your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your lips. It’s rough, but it’s a warm kiss. His hands dig into the fabric of your shirt, which you feel, strangely, is one of the most comforting things you’ve felt in a while. When he pulls away from you, neither of you say a word.

“Well?” he says, finally. “How was that?”

You let out a breath of air halfway between a chuckle and a gasp. Your next move is such a blur, you feel you’re barely making any move at all. You put both your hands on his face, gently, and kiss him, your tongue probing its way into his mouth. He accepts it readily, and you find his tongue is rough, but somehow gentle. Under your hands, his skin feels like any other human’s: warm, alive. The big difference was the feel of it, the way it rubbed against your palms roughly, the way it clung to his bones and made him seem resilient. 

When the two of you separate he grabs your hips and maneuvers you backward, pressing your ass into the couch’s back. He grinds against you, his face on your neck, and groans a quiet obscenity. Through his pants, and yours, his hard-on is apparent, and the faint feel of it sends a jolt through you. You reach down and grab his dick, rubbing the head with your thumb. With your other hand you reach for his zipper, but he stops you.

“Not so fast,” he says, quietly, removing your hands. His own hands, calloused and rough, begin to unzip your pants. With your head so full of him, it seems to take forever, and the wetness between your thighs reaches an almost embarrassing amount. Hancock slides his hand down and ignores your underwear, going straight for your clit. Almost immediately you begin to grind against his hand, in slow circles, matching his movements. You throw your head back and moan.

“That’s my girl,” he purrs, in that low voice of his. You throw your arms around him tightly, as though to hold yourself steady, as though you wanted to anchor yourself to him. He runs the pad of his finger along your slit, up and down in one smooth motion. You shudder. When he slides his finger into you, you feel pleasure and relief in equal turns. 

“Oh, please,” you say softly, and Hancock smiles. You shift your hips to urge him along, to silently tell him to pick up the pace. Obliging, he adds another finger, ventures further into you, dotting your neck with light kisses. You moan again, bite your lower lip, and grip him tighter.

“What is it, love?” With a deft finger, Hancock works your g-spot. His smile is positively impish. “Use your words.”

“Fuck!” Is all you can manage to say as you jerk with pleasure, sweat beading your forehead. “I want- ah!” 

Hancock laughs. “Yes…?”

“Put your-” You groan as another wave of near-the-edge pleasure takes you by surprise. Your body is bracing itself for the inevitable release.

“Put your cock in me already!” you blurt.

He doesn’t need any more instruction than that. Before you have time to process what’s happening, Hancock has pulled his finger out of you and is lowering you onto the couch, pressing gentle kisses along your neck. You wipe your sweat-covered forehead, brushing your hair away, and angle your head so as to receive a direct kiss on the lips. Always a master of his craft, Hancock has his dick out already, and you feverishly pull down your pants and panties. He helps them the rest of the way off and spreads your legs wide. 

He pauses, drawing out a moment that’s already causing you considerable anticipation, and rubs the tip of his dick against your opening. The touch of it sends another shiver through your body. Steadying himself with a hand on the back of the couch, he adjusts one of your legs and finally, finally, pushes himself inside you. You take him in with no trouble at all, reveling in the stretch you feel deep inside. 

“You’re so tight,” he says, and you hear the hitch in his voice. He’s enjoying this as much as you are, and the thought spurs you on, closer toward the peak. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you rock yourself against him, and the two of you find the perfect rhythm. Your legs begin to tremble as he goes deeper, deeper with every thrust. He hits some spot within you and you lift your hips suddenly, crying out. Quickly, he maneuvers his hand to your clit and begins teasing it again. 

“That’s my girl,” he says, and he leans in to catch your lower lip between his teeth. Increasing the speed of his thrusting, he now leans to your ear and kisses the lobe. “Come for me,” he whispers, and that’s when you do. 

Your toes curl and your back arches underneath him. The sound of his voice throws you off the peak, into orgasm, and you ride the waves of pleasure with your head thrown back and your mouth open in a low, low moan. Your muscles tense and flex around his dick. He’s looking at you now, biting his lower lip, taking in the sight of you splayed out in complete bliss. 

“Keep going,” you tell him, when he moves to pull out. “Your turn.” 

He smiles playfully and obliges, a hand moving to cradle your head and another to grab your breast. He was on the edge, too; his thrusts become quicker, more erratic, and it seems like no time at all before he’s pulling out and shooting hot, thick ropes of cum onto your chest. 

For a moment, neither of you move, except to pant and wipe away stray sweat. He leans over and pecks you on the lips, brushing some hair from your eyes. 

“Happy?” he asks. He stands, goes to his desk, and throws you a towel. You begin to wipe your chest and smile at him playfully.

“You broke character halfway through the scene,” you say.

Hancock stares at you in mock derision.

“What? I just gave you the best dicking of your life and you’re going to criticize my performance?” He returns to the couch and nudges you up straight so he can sit next to you. Throwing an arm around you, he sighs, and you laugh.

“You really made a mess of me this time,” you say.

“You’re a hot mess, alright,” he says. “And usually I like to claim that title for myself.”

“Next time, I expect full commitment to the character!” 

“Okay,” he concedes. “But I get to pick the scene.”


End file.
